“A bidarkie,” laughed Serge. “No, not necessarily; sea-otters are often shot in the surf from the beach, and then the hunter waits until the waves bring the body ashore.”
[CHAPTER XXII]
HOW JALAP COOMBS GOT HIS NAME
While the lads talked of sea-otters, their companion, who had cleaned up the dishes by the simple process of sweeping the remains of their meal into the fire, had been deliberately shaving bits of tobacco from a plug that had fortunately escaped a wetting, and filling his beloved pipe. This he had lighted with a live coal deftly picked up in his callous fingers, and he now sat, surrounded by a halo of fragrant smoke, blinking in the firelight, a picture of placid content. Seizing the opportunity of a pause in the conversation he broke in with:
“Sea-otters allers reminds me of old Kite Roberson who once said, consarning ’em, ‘Jal’—he allers called me ‘Jal,’ short for Jalap, ye understand—”
“By-the-way,” interrupted Phil, “you promised to tell us how you happened to have such an outlan—I mean, such a peculiar name.”
“So I did, and so I will. To begin with, I want to say that I don’t believe as a gineral thing in rebelling again’ the name your parents have give ye, when like as not they didn’t have nothing else to give. In some cases, though, it’s difficult to become resigned. I’ve striv faithful to get reconciled to Jalap, without getting an inch nearer to it to-day than I was when I fust realized what a heathenish hail it war. Being the youngest of thirteen boys, and my father allers hankering fur a gal baby, I was naturally a turrible disappointment to him, in addition to being a mortal ugly young duffer to look at. Seeing he was about run out of Scripter names for boys, my father was hard put to it to know what to call me, and as christening day drew nigh he was in a wuss quandary than ever.
“’Bout this time old Kite Roberson—he was young Kite then—came back from his fust v’y’ge, which he had been four years arter whales in the South Pacific. Now in my town and his’n mussels, such as you two was eating just now, was plenty, and the boys uster have mussel roasts as a reg’lar thing. Kite was mortal fond of ’em, and seeing as he hadn’t had none in four years, made up his mind the fust thing when he got back to have the biggest kind of a mussel roast. And so he did. From all accounts he must have et nigh onto a bushel, and naturally they made him so sick that he like to ha’ died. Now old Mis’ Roberson, Kite’s ma, was a master-hand at doctorin’, and what she doctored with mostly was jalap. Of course she give this to Kite, and stood over him while he swallowed it, till he didn’t know which was wust, it or dying.
“Fust time he got round he come over to our house, we being neighbors, to see me, which he hadn’t ever sot eyes on me afore. My father fetched me out, and says, referring to me, ye understand, ‘He ain’t no beauty, is he?’